Bertie and the Kinky Politician (34 page)

‘So, I'm here as your MP to ask a simple question. What would
you
like me to do? We live in a democracy so I'm giving you the opportunity to have your say. I will listen and I will debate, and if you want me to continue supporting this present administration then, as your elected representative, I will do so. However, should you feel the time has come for a change then by all means let's have a change. I can offer you this opportunity because I intend to stand down at the next election. Let's face it, I wouldn't find it entirely unsurprising if you'd prefer not have Percy the Pervert as your MP,' he concluded dryly. Laughter rippled through the gathering.

‘I admire your honesty and don't even mind having a pervert as my MP, just as long as he's a competent pervert!' observed a lady in a blue bobble hat. There were a gratifying number of nods to this sage observation.

‘Well I do mind,' snapped another woman nearby. ‘You're nothing but a disgrace.'

‘Madam,' said James calmly, ‘what's a disgrace is that politics has become unaccountable to the people. Yes, there are certain colourful things I like to do in the privacy of my own home. You may find these things odd and amusing, even distasteful, and fortunately you live in country where you're fully entitled to your opinion, but those things are – or were – private, they're not illegal and they certainly haven't effected my judgement at Westminster. I've been honest enough to acknowledge my proclivities. They are no longer private and I know that from this day forward I'll be forever subject to ridicule, but I certainly don't consider myself to be a disgrace.'

‘So are you going to stay or not?' came a distant call.

‘No, I'm not planning to remain in office. The question here is not whether you want me as your MP, but whether you think this Government should continue or not.'

‘Hang on a minute. If we decide it's time for a change, then you'll go ahead and vote yourself out of a job?'

‘I suppose you can look at it that way.'

‘That's a bit daft, isn't it?' said a distinguished-looking gentleman. ‘You're a local lad. Lots of people know you, so who will we have to represent us?'

‘The local party chairman and his members will select a new candidate,' answered James. ‘I am confident they'll do a good job.'

‘Yeah, an out-of-towner with a funny accent and sustificut in something pointless!' objected the gentleman. This brought another collective smile. For some reason, genuine Gloucester people were genetically incapable of pronouncing the word ‘certificate' correctly. Even James himself had occasionally lapsed in the Palace of Westminster, eliciting sniggers of condescending derision from those around him.

‘Yeah,' he countered instantly, ‘and I'll bet he'll come here on the buzz and won't know what daps are, either!' There was a widespread guffaw from the crowd and James knew he'd scored a big point reminding them he was a local. A buzz is a large vehicle with seats. If you want to catch a buzz, you wait at the buzz stop. Dap is another idiosyncratic term unique to the area – as far as the people of Gloucester are concerned, a pump is used to inflate tyres, a Plimsoll is a diagram painted on the side of a ship, and an espadrille is something French and therefore to be regarded with deep suspicion. A dap is a canvas shoe. They come in two colours. Black or white.

James sensed a momentum building. There was now a whiff of hostility in the crowd – but it wasn't directed at him. The distant policeman looked increasingly nervous. A few people started shouting, drowning each other out. James felt a tug on his jacket and looked down at Mrs Badham. ‘I think you've got your answer, Mr Timbrill, so I'll be off to the shops now,' she said calmly, putting on her gloves. ‘I'll be over on Tuesday as usual. The guest bedroom is already aired and made up. Miss Gordon and Bertie will be staying, of course.' She turned without saying goodbye and walked away, threaded a path through the crowd.

James looked out over the throng. The policeman was waving at him furiously and making desperate cutting actions across his throat in an attempt to get James to finish. He didn't seem at all happy. Positively animated, in fact. People were now shouting from all quarters of the square, shaking their fists to make their point – and James felt a little warming glow of pleasure at their hearty response. He smiled. To think, all this passion the result of a careless remark by a macaw!

But it wasn't just Bertie's revelations that had got the crowd fired up. Unknown to anyone, the two nuclear power stations located down the Severn estuary contributed to this uncharacteristically radical behaviour. Their natural West Country stubbornness had been subtly stirred by exposure to radiation, that charmless by-product of fission which showed an annoyingly independent streak when it came to matters of containment. Any leak – and over three decades of operation it's inconceivable that even the tiniest smidgen of contamination hadn't made a bolt for freedom – had been wafted upstream by the prevailing south-westerlies and deposited over the city, this feathery shower of radioactivity gently dosing up its inhabitants, encouraging their obstreperousness while also clearly affecting that part of the brain which controls the pronunciation of the word ‘certificate'.

So, at a time most inconvenient for the Prime Minister, the good people of Gloucester decided their moment had finally arrived. Fed up with a raft of unfair tax hikes, buoyed by the success of the egg campaign, and spurred on by a curious mixture of irritation and irradiation, they demanded change, a few because of a deeper feeling of unease, but most just for the sheer hell of it. At long last a useful outlet had been found for all that quiet, frustrated anger so often felt by the British public, and in a giddying moment of collective democratic effervescence, James was left in no doubt as to their decision.

No doubt at all.

James returned home after the meeting had broken up, finding the lane now clear of trucks. He saw Celeste's car in the drive. She'd motored down from London with Bertie to escape the suffocating attention of the media. The cottage offered sanctuary, sitting in its own gardens and providing privacy from outside intrusion. She'd obviously found the spare key in its cunningly concealed location under the doormat and, on hearing the sound of his car, met him at the front door. She drew him in and embraced him. Behind her, Bertie's happy purring filled the old building.

‘Mistress,' he sighed. ‘I'm so glad you're here. I now have an extraordinarily difficult decision to make.'

‘I know. Mrs Badham rang from a call box in town.' A mobile phone remained an object of profound suspicion for Glynis. It wasn't that she found technology particularly difficult to handle – her knowledge of vacuum cleaners was legendary – she simply didn't understand how messages could possibly be transmitted without a wire. ‘She already knows your decision.'

‘That's one smart woman.'

‘I could help.'

‘How?'

‘I'm happy to place you in a position where you'd be unable to return to London for the vote. This would remove any sense of responsibility from you. Personally, I'd have no difficulty sleeping tonight knowing I'd had a hand in ending this Government, especially since Wilf remains convinced Downing Street sanctioned the burglary.'

‘You have no idea how wonderful that sounds but I think I'll pass. There's a need inside me which can only be satisfied by a personal appearance at the House. An important part of that need is to see the look on the PM's face at division time.'

‘So you'll be voting against your own party.' Celeste considered this to be one of the most courageous things she'd ever seen. It was clear James was terribly torn; on the one side by his loyalty to his Westminster colleagues, on the other by his deep sense of honesty and fair play. This being politics, the two, naturally, were irredeemably incompatible.

‘That's what my constituents have just asked me to do. In surprisingly strong terms, as well. I don't know what got into them. They seemed to be spurred on by something quite unnatural – and that's another strange thing,' he added thoughtfully.

‘Yes?' prompted Celeste.

‘They weren't at all concerned about Bertie's revelation. They actually didn't care in the slightest what exotic path my personal life has taken. What's more important to them is my honesty and, although I never thought I'd say this – competence!'

‘This low opinion of yourself is totally unjustified. You're a smart, clever, scrupled, genuine, extremely capable, and inventive man. These are not qualities that can be hidden. I can see them, Mrs B and the excitable folk of Gloucester can see them. Even Gav's cows can see them, one of whom, by the way, is munching her way through your peonies as we speak.'

‘Rather than being allowed to retire, I've been urged to stand as an Independent MP. Actually, “urged” is an understatement. I've been
ordered
to stand. They need me. How can I refuse?'

‘Then don't. Follow your heart, James, and everything will work out just fine. I promise.' Celeste hugged him again, resting her head on his shoulder. He suddenly became aware of her urgent need for comfort. This was more than just a hug; there was a heavenly intimacy in her touch not experienced before. They stood together in a timeless moment of complete bliss. ‘And I do love you so much,' she added simply. ‘I think I always have, right from the moment I caught you thieving Patti's pastries!'

Overwhelmed, James closed his eyes and buried his face in Celeste's burnished copper hair, his heart tripping and skipping in a joyous burst of euphoria.

‘I love you,' added another voice. ‘Yes, I do.' Bertie scampered into the room, claws clicking on the old wooden floor, his long tail feathers swishing from side to side across the oak boards as he waddled along, He looked up, head cocked to one side, his bright eyes watching them embrace.

‘I love you too, my divine, glorious Mistress. Poor Patti, she had no idea her matchmaking efforts would ever have such dramatic consequences.'

‘Mistress
and
lover,' corrected Celeste. ‘Be gentle – I'm still a virgin!'

‘I'm not,' said Bertie brightly.

‘Can you cope, my gorgeous leather man? When you take me on, you take Bertie as well.'

‘It'll be my honour.' James gazed with adoration into Celeste's sparkling green eyes and knew he would never leave her side again. His political problems, the conflicts of interest he faced, the fact that he was about to make a hugely far-reaching decision of international significance, and even the exposure of his wayward sexual inclinations, all of these meant nothing because now they would always be together and his life was complete. ‘I love you so very much, my darling Celeste,' he murmured.

‘Then why aren't you kissing me?' she asked.

‘But you've never allowed me above the knees.'

‘Oh, James, you have my full permission to roam wherever you want!' She melted into his arms, her arms wrapped around his neck, body pressed close. Their kiss was intimate and gloriously passionate.

For the first time in her life, Celeste simply let go. She lost control and it felt wonderful. She just couldn't help herself. God, this man could kiss! Why hadn't she done this before? Bertie bobbed up and down as he did whenever he was in a bonny mood. It was as plain as the bill on his face his mum had at last found herself a mate. He'd known all along they'd spend the rest of their lives together – so why on earth did these pink monkeys devote so much time in avoiding the inevitable?

Celeste eventually broke their embrace, a little breathless and flushed. She gripped his shoulders with both hands and stared into his eyes. ‘Now, go and do the right thing,' she ordered firmly, then smiled with what could only be described as a look of coquettish lasciviousness. ‘And I'll be suitably dressed waiting for your return, so you'd better damn well hurry.'

James grabbed his car keys and bolted for the door, but turned at the sound of Bertie's voice calling after him. ‘Oh yes, yes, yes,' the macaw trilled happily, ‘Now we're cooking!'

And Finally …

The old lady carefully manoeuvred her tray through the kitchen door and padded slowly into her sitting room. It was good to be home, to be surrounded by the familiarity and easy lived-in comfort of her own cottage, even after a blissful three-month visit to her nephew and his very acceptable wife out in Turkey. It had been so nice to switch off, ignore the papers and their endless messages of woe and despair, enjoy a spot of top-notch sunshine, and eye up the local young men – the Turks were a devastatingly handsome race, no doubt about it; black-haired, olive-skinned, and impeccably mannered. As if that wasn't ample enough reason for her visit, her nephew's traditional mountain village house now enjoyed a lovely pool which she'd used every day to help keep her ravaged joints supple. Sadly, she was already stiffening up even though she'd barely been back home a few hours, and armoured herself against the cold evening with a long cotton night gown, thermal bedsocks, ancient furred slippers that resembled squashed raccoons, and a fleeced dressing gown wrapped tight as a winding-sheet around her frail body.

Despite the warm clothes she still felt that psychological chill which comes with advancing age and placing the tray containing her solitary evening dinner on a table beside her chair, bent to the hearth and switched the fire to its highest setting. She lowered herself stiffly, her aching limbs wracked with arthritis. ‘Bastard wind!' she muttered for the umpteenth time, cursing the cause of her pain. Every joint hurt, the legacy of years spent enduring frigid winter gales. That same wind now whined softly as it sought to insinuate its way into the cottage, but thick drapes pulled across the windows kept it at bay. She arranged a fluffy beige blanket over her legs and snuggled. The wing-back chair was old and faded but had moulded comfortably to the contours of her body from years of use. More importantly, it was positioned as close to the fire as was possible without igniting spontaneously.